


Till Next We Meet

by nerfherder_writes (nerfherder_han)



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Implied attempted kidnapping, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 12:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20064244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerfherder_han/pseuds/nerfherder_writes
Summary: It’s a chaste kiss, a far cry from every other one you’ve shared with him. A kiss meant for farewells, reluctant to part but unwilling to linger for too long.“Till next we meet,” you say softly. Achilles lifts your chin, traces your lower lip with his thumb.“Till next we meet,” he agrees.





	Till Next We Meet

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first full explicit rating and smut. Can y'all tell I had to stop multiple times when writing it?  
Also stay tuned for like four/five more parts, we're going up until you're master at Chaldea.

**Circa 1200 BC**

The first time he lays eyes on you, you’re bent over with an amphora of wine in your arms and refilling his cup with practiced ease. Your chiton is loose and practically hangs from your shoulders, leaving a delicious sight for him to drink in as the scent of wine fills his lungs once more.

It’s been a long night but he’s far from drunk, barely feeling a buzz in the back of his head as the party continues on and on. Patroclus sits by his side, following his gaze as you move on to the next patron waiting for their fill, and he barely hesitates to tease about his interest. Achilles isn’t the only one hearing these little jabs, the way Patroclus calls him insatiable, because when you look back over your shoulder at him you meet his gaze with a flirtatious smirk.

He’ll be damned if he doesn’t take you back to his tent by the end of the night.

You find each other, later into the festivities, when you run out of wine to serve and Achilles has been left to his own devices. He takes the amphora from your hands and traces the outline of your shoulder, and you practically let him as you call to someone over your shoulder. You’re being stolen away, you tell the person in the small kitchen, by a man of Achaea. Achilles plays along and adds that you won’t be returned until morning.

The two of you crash into his tent, panting against each other as you paw at your clothing. You nibble at his lower lip when he finally peels the chiton off of you, and he gives your behind a firm squeeze of approval as you discard his red sash. He knows you can taste the wine from his lips every time you lean up to meet him, and part of him hopes that he’s getting you just as tipsy as you did him.

You push him down to the floor of his tent and straddle him. Achilles drinks in the sight of you as you brush your hair out of your face and stare down at him with half-lidded eyes. You lick your lips and reach behind you, and the both of you shudder when your fingers brush against his slowly rising cock.

All Achilles can hear is the slapping of skin and the sinful moans that escape you. He holds your hips steady, fingers digging into your skin for dear life; the way you ride him so sensually, tracing his chest as though to ground yourself with every thrust he meets you with. You practically come undone atop him while he chases his release, and once you start to lose energy he sits up and guides you beneath him.

Your fingernails don’t leave deep marks against his back, no matter how hard you hold on to him as he pistons in and out of you. So fast, you moan up at him, swallowing his laboured breaths with a hungry kiss. When he comes he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, tastes the sweat lining your skin; the brush of his teeth against your skin is enough to make you moan once more, the perfect finish to the glorious meal he’s been served.

You lay tucked into his side for a time, blanketed by the thin sheet he drapes over the two of you. It takes you some time to catch your breath again, to be able to see straight, but once you do you begin running your fingers through his hair.

“So,” you say, breathy and still drunk from the sex, “who am I blaming for ruining one of my favourite perks of travelling?”

He smirks at you. It’s a compliment, if he ever heard one. “Achilles.”

You stare at him for a moment. Ever so slowly you break out into a defeated smile, and you soon begin smothering your face against his chest.

“That answers a few more questions,” you mutter against him.

Achilles laughs out loud. He pulls you closer and tucks stray hairs behind your ear. The silence, the afterglow, is peaceful.

“So,” he continues after a time, “who did I ruin one of the better perks of travelling for?”

You snort and slowly push yourself up to face him. You fold your hands over his chest and rest your chin atop them. There’s confliction in your eyes, he realises, and you hesitate for a few seconds before meeting his gaze again and responding.

“Just a mage,” you tell him. “One who will be gone from this place in a matter of days.”

“That’s hardly fair. You got my name.”

You smile wryly at him. “Yes, so all I lay with shall know who to hunt down for the blow to their egos.”

Achilles shakes his head and relaxes. Cheeky thing, you are; he’ll grant you your anonymity, but should the two of you meet again after these next few days, he’s not leaving without your name.

He cups your cheek with one hand and slowly, teasingly runs his fingers down your spine with the other. You practically purr against him, that sultry look back in your eyes already. It looks like you both have the same thing in mind, and that’s all it takes for him to become aroused once more.

“I’d best leave my mark for them to find,” he drawls.

***

True to your word, you remain in the area for a few days after. More than once he catches sight of you at a stall, selling remedies along with charms and trinkets, and Achilles isn’t the only one to notice. Well, it’s more like Patroclus notices Achilles notice you, but that’s far too complicated a way of putting it for him.

Patroclus drags Achilles to the stall with a grin, and Achilles can’t bring himself to fight against the older man. He’d do the same, if someone had captured Patroclus’ fancy; it’s the fact that Patroclus even remembers your face from the previous night that surprises Achilles, though.

“Why, hello, noble sirs,” you greet, a perfect smile on your face to match your pleasant attitude. “Are you interested in any of our wares today?”

Patroclus scans the items with an exaggerated nod of his head. “What do you have to sell?”

You start with the jewellery first, the plain items that you proclaim make wonderful gifts to anyone the duo may have waiting at home for them. Necklaces, earrings, bangles; Achilles can’t even recognise some of the patterns on a few of them, and it just proves that you’re a traveller of your word. You move on to the charms—the pins that have been blessed by holy men to ward off curses, the amulets stuffed with herbs to promote good luck and health. And then you move on to the tonics, hidden away in a wooden box and sorted by colour.

“That’s a lot to sell,” Patroclus marvels, still exaggerating. Achilles knows for a fact he is, because he glances right back at the other man with a smirk. He swears you and Patroclus may as well be related, with attitudes like that.

“We have a high demand for many things,” you inform him. One by one you list them off. “Ointment for irritated skin. An elixir that clears the lungs. Useful tinctures for more personal needs, such as helping a man keep up with his lover—not that I’d need to sell robust men such as yourselves any,” you add in a hushed, playful tone.

Patroclus snorts a laugh and finally relents in his act. “I like this one. Reminds me of a certain someone,” he teases Achilles.

Achilles just elbows him and smiles. “Funny. Are you going to purchase anything, or was your plan to meddle with business?”

Patroclus pulls out his coin purse and buys a jar of oil and a ring from you. The ring is far too small to fit on anyone’s fingers—anyone Achilles or Patroclus know, at least—and you provide him with a thin black cord to thread through it.

“An excellent choice,” you tell Patroclus. “The ring is a charm for those going into battle, meant for a safe return home. Choose who you give it to wisely,” you add. “The effects only work on one person once gifted.”

Immediately Patroclus drapes the cord around Achilles’ neck.

“Gods know you need it,” he teases. Achilles swats his hands away.

“Such a comedian today. Should I have the local amphitheatre cleared out for your debut?”

“I’d pay to see more of this,” you jump in with a smirk.

Achilles looks back to you now, and he returns your smirk with a wicked one of his own. “A shame you’ll be too preoccupied the next few days, isn’t it?”

You don’t back down. Instead, you pull out one of the jars from earlier, and he recognises it as one meant to give men a little assistance down below. “You’ll be needing this, then. Free of charge.”

The oil is unceremoniously shoved into Achilles’ hands as Patroclus laughs his way out of the market.

***

You’re boneless in his arms, an incoherent mess as he thrusts up into you. The tent is heavy with the smell of sex in the air, and he swears he can see steam if he looks hard enough. He’s lost count of how long it’s been since you snuck into his tent. All he knows is that he hasn’t let you go once since your arrival. He insists on meeting your expectations, clear as they’d been made before Patroclus.

You’d wanted a show of stamina, after all.

You’re teetering on the edge of your third orgasm when he slows his thrusts. His teeth nip at your throat, his tongue swiping at the small red marks left behind. You’re putty in his arms, pliant and sweaty with your mouth caught agape. A sight to behold, he thinks as he slows to a stop, and it only gets better when those lust-filled eyes open in search of him.

He pulls out of you, nuzzles at your temple and plants a soft, reassuring kiss at your hairline. You watch him, half-spent in your ecstasy, but still coherent enough to slur out, “A...chilles?”

“Can’t keep up?” he teases. You laugh breathlessly. The look on your face says it all, an admission to defeat from your earlier joke. It had gotten a good laugh out of Patroclus at least, but to anyone else Achilles is the last person people would think to make such a joke about.

You’re trying to catch your breath, but every time you get close you start to speak.

“H… Have you…” You swallow thickly. You cling to Achilles again, and he’s pleasantly surprised when he feels your fingers travel down his navel. You stroke his cock once and it practically twitches in your hand. “One more…”

Oh Gods, how it invigorates him anew. He’s already come once, riding the high inside you before starting his second round immediately. But the way you urge him on, tell him to show you one more round of that stamina he’s renowned for, just makes him want to ravish you until the sun comes up.

He turns you around, carefully balancing you on your hands and knees in front of him. He hadn’t noticed before, far too preoccupied by the look on your face, but now that he’s been treated to the view of your behind he thinks he might come on the spot. Thighs trembling as you hold yourself up for him, oil coating your skin almost as much as your sweat. And, Achilles thinks as his breath hitches, the perfect sight of his seed leaking from your hole. He licks his lips as he watches it dribble along your leg, and without even thinking he runs his fingers along your skin and collects the mixture.

Achilles snakes his other arm around your torso, pulling you up to your knees and flush against his back.

“I hear mages replenish their energy in interesting ways,” he purrs in your ear. You shudder and loll your head back against his shoulder. Achilles brings his come-slicked fingers up to your lips, and you part them without hesitation to lick at the digits. Achilles pushes the fingers further into your mouth as he pulls you closer. You moan, louder than before, when he rubs his cock along the cleft of your ass. “Maybe this’ll get you going.”

Achilles takes his time entering you again. He makes shallow thrusts, kisses along your neck as you lick his fingers clean. And when you’ve done that, you close your lips tightly around them and suck on them with a long, contented moan. Your tongue moves along their lengths, massages them, and Achilles loses his pacing when his mind wanders—wanders to the image of your lips around his cock, of your tongue dragging so painfully slowly along its underside. He’s practically lifting you with each thrust, his thoughts never-ending and forcing his body to move of its own accord.

One particularly hard thrust, angled just so, has you releasing his fingers and crying out his name. You reach back for his face, fingers grabbing desperately for something to hold onto. Achilles groans when they tug at his hair, and he makes certain to aim for that sweet spot of yours until he comes.

You’re both silent for a time, Achilles watching you attentively as you try to catch your breath again. He lays you down proper, head gently placed on his pillow, and he hovers above you for a few more seconds.

When you crack open your eye, you’re quick to correct him: “Whoever told you that  _ mages _ replenish their energy through carnal acts was half-wrong.”

Achilles raises his brows. “I see you still have enough energy to correct me. Am I right to assume that means you can stand another round?”

You shove at him weakly and laugh. It’s a lovely sound, one he isn’t sure he can get enough of.

“Spare me, you insatiable beast,” you drawl. “Any longer and I’ll forget how to walk.”

Achilles practically drops on top of you, and you slap at his back as you laugh even more. “But I’ve already downed a whole jar of the tonic,” Achilles groans in jest. “How could I possibly survive the night with no one to help me?”

“You’re only in trouble if it doesn’t go away by sunrise.”

He rolls over. He drags you along with him, pulling you atop him until you’re draped over his chest in a half-embrace. It’s in this position that he remembers the ring Patroclus had bought from you, still around his neck on its cord. You reach for it, turn it over in your hand a few times, and there’s an almost serene look on your face as you do so.

“You must mean a lot to the man who gifted this to you,” you tell him. Achilles hums once. For all the trouble they give each other, it’s hard to say anything bad about their relationship.

“Patroclus is very well-loved,” he says. You watch him, eyes wide and full of curiosity. “He just reflects that love back to everyone else.”

“I quite liked Patroclus, from what I saw today.”

He huffs a laugh. “He has that effect on people. It’s jarring at first, seeing it happen all the time, but after being around him as long as I have it becomes part of daily life.”

You’re even more interested now. “Childhood friends?”

He considers for a moment, whether the term is right for him and Patroclus. They’d been friends from a young age, certainly, but Patroclus had also been his mentor—the few years separating them just enough to count as such—and, for a time, a lover. Even now, on some nights when the need takes them both, Achilles could still call them that.

“Just calling us friends would do it no justice,” he settles. Besides, knowing Patroclus, he’s done something odd by giving his former  _ eromenos _ a gift instead of the other way around. The trinkets were meant for lovers of warriors, if he recalls. “What about yourself? Any friends of yours I can meet?”

You sigh. It’s a slow, somewhat dejected sigh. You turn your attention back to the ring and resume turning it over in your hand.

“A caravan,” you tell him. “But a childhood friend is not among them. We travel too much for proper bonds to be made, and more often than not we merge and separate from other caravans. A safety net for dangerous areas.”

“What about family?”

You shake your head. “Still in Assyria,” you say. “I haven’t seen them since I joined another caravan to study on my own. I’m not even sure if they’re still there, but it shouldn’t be too hard to follow the trade routes.”

You don’t dwell on the subject of family and friends for long. Instead you jump right into your travels, asking Achilles if he’s ever been to the places you have. You describe Assyria and Babylon and even Lacedaemon, though you quickly note that the stay in Lacedaemon was tense and short. When Achilles asks, you speak the tongue of foreign countries with ease and teach him how to introduce himself each time.

He only mentions envying you once, astounded by your nomadic lifestyle and how free you seem, to wander from country to country and see all these sights. He stops the moment you mention envying him, for his ability to call one place home and for having someone like Patroclus in his life.

***

There’s a young girl clinging to you and crying when he sees you next. Her hair is a mess, her clothing torn and skin bruised, but her disheveled sight is nothing compared to the cuts and bruises and blood that litter you.

The old woman wrapping your hand, still trembling from the pain, scolds you even as Achilles and Patroclus approach the stall.

“Honestly, child,” she growls, “I know you mean well, but you have your magic for a reason. You needn’t use your fists to settle things like this.”

You’re easygoing despite your state, smirking to yourself with a sort of bitterness that puts all the pieces together for Achilles. The injured young girl clinging to you, apologising over and over, and your wounded state—it’s more than obvious from your expression that you’d stepped in on something disastrous and came out victorious.

“Magic would’ve been a compliment to them,” you tell the old woman matter-of-factly. With your other hand, still unbandaged and starting to swell at the wrist, you pat the little girl on the head. “And I couldn’t risk hitting the poor thing. There’s not a lot of space between homes for anything flashy—”

You’re swatted on the forehead immediately. Achilles can feel a pointed look aimed at him from Patroclus, a sort of teasing hidden beneath the concerned expression.  _ Reminds me of someone _ , he seems to want to say aloud once more. But instead of saying as such, Patroclus knocks lightly on the front of the stall and calls out to you.

“Trouble find you today?” he says. The young girl goes pale, looking like she’s seen a ghost as she glances between him and Achilles. She all but hides behind you and hides her face in your clothes.

“More like I found trouble.” You sigh, and the old woman finishes bandaging the first hand. You give her the other, and Achilles watches as the old woman’s hands glow a sight blue at the palms. Cold air, visible in the light of the day, surrounds your wrist. “I didn’t think anyone would be brazen enough to try take a young girl in broad daylight. Alas.”

Ah. So he was right about the situation. Achilles crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks to Patroclus with a deadpan stare.

“You’re sure it was  _ me _ who needed that trinket, still?”

Patroclus returns his stare with a scoff. “I’m beginning to think I should’ve just bought two. How’re you holding up?”

You shrug. The old woman swats you again, this time scolding you for moving while she tries to fix you up.

“Marjorie’s not going to let me go any time soon,” you say, “but can I ask a favour? The girl told me whereabouts she lives but she’s too scared to go by herself.”

The young girl clings to you harder. You pat at her head again.

“Or with men,” you add with a nervous laugh. “Can either of you let her family know she’s here?”

Patroclus agrees on the spot, though Achilles isn’t far behind. They’re free for the day anyway, and it can’t hurt to make sure the girl gets home safe. Gods knew those men were still out there looking for her—and maybe for you, hoping to get some payback.

The young girl’s mother is easier to find than Achilles thinks. The moment she hears where her daughter is, what’s happened to her, all they have to do is keep up with her frantic sprint and make sure she heads in the right direction. You’re properly patched up by the time they get there, and the girl is trying on some jewellery at the stall while you tell her she can take any she wants for free.

Also on the house, Achilles overhears as mother and daughter reunite, is a tonic. It’s to calm the girl, you tell her mother, and to help her sleep tonight. This isn’t the first time you’ve stepped in on something like this, Achilles realises; everywhere you’ve gone, you’ve resolved to help in more ways than just behind a stall. Your hands shake as you hand her to small glass jar, and you give her clear instructions for how to dose the tonic even as Marjorie hovers behind you once more. The woman bows profusely at you, turns to Achilles, and then aims her thanks to him as well.

He hadn’t done a thing, he thinks, but she leaves with her daughter, absolutely convinced that Achilles had played a part in helping her.

Marjorie jabs at your side. You let out a yelp, and she all but explodes at you. “And you hold back injuries from me!” she lectures you again. She returns to the small carriage behind the stall and begins rummaging through it for something.

Gods, you’re more reckless than he’d thought. He doesn’t even need to see the look on Patroclus’ face to know he’s thinking the same.

He pulls out his coin purse and recalls how much the oil from yesterday had cost. He’s back at the stall proper, and immediately you put on a professional smile for him.

“You have elixirs, right?” he asks. You nod and, hands still shaking and clearly aching, you lift the lid of the farthest box on the stall.

“Temporary antidotes for poisons and venom,” you list, pointing to each one. “A draught that keeps you from dehydrating. A simple elixir to speed up the healing process—”

“That one.” He slides the coins across the stall to you. You nod and try to pull out the glass vial, slowly and carefully; it drops back into the box each time, though, and when you attempt once more Achilles just grabs the vial and opens it himself.

“Don’t tell me you pulled a muscle looking for her mother,” you joke. Achilles just gives you a deadpan stare as he pushes the vial into your hands. You’re confused a moment, as is Patroclus, but soon you start giggling once you look from him to the vial.

“What? It’ll help, won’t it? And you’re not losing a profit,” he demands. You just laugh more and more, shaking your head and holding up a hand as though asking for time to calm down. You’re still laughing as Marjorie returns, a staff in her hand and her eyes locking onto the vial in an instant.

Marjorie’s quick to put two and two together. Probably quicker than Achilles, impossible as it sounds.

She swats at Achilles with her staff. He just barely steps back in time for it to miss him, but it’s back in his face and pushing up his nose soon enough.

“Our elixirs are meant for fighters,” she scolds Achilles. “The child gets personal treatment from me.”

You pause your laughing for a moment to wheeze out, “Marjorie’s a healer.”

And now Patroclus laughs. He steps in, lowering Marjorie’s staff with a smile, and says, “Forgive us, ma’am. My friend had good intentions. We’ll take the elixir and save it for an emergency, if that will make up for it?”

Marjorie’s glare jumps to the stall counter. She counts the coins, and then looks back to Patroclus with her face scrunched up. “Very well. Now hurry off so I can tend to this fool beside me.”

Achilles just barely hears you correct her, calling yourself a fool who gave the stall a good reputation, before the staff swats your head once more.

***

The final day you’re in the area, Achilles makes it just in time to see you off. You’re loading the last of the crates of product into the back of one caravan when he calls out to you, and he’s pleased to see that, true to your word, Marjorie had healed you. Gone are all traces of injuries, and your hands barely require any bandaging now. Only the one that had swollen is still lightly wrapped, but even then you use it like it’s still in good condition.

Like the first night you met him, you call back that you’re being stolen away by a man of Achaea. Achilles grins and joins in, adding that you’ll be returned in just a few moments.

You hide with him in the shadows of an alley. He leans against the wall behind you, boxing you in with his arms, and you lower the hood of your cloak to stare up at him with a smile. He’s not sure what to say, whether he should say anything at all. It doesn’t help that you remain silent as well, even as you grab his sash and drag him down to meet you.

It’s a chaste kiss, a far cry from every other one you’ve shared with him. A kiss meant for farewells, reluctant to part but unwilling to linger for too long.

“Till next we meet,” you say softly. Achilles lifts your chin, traces your lower lip with his thumb.

“Till next we meet,” he agrees.


End file.
